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To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away.
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read;
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head.
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart, she sighed; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the .prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot:
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to

think— Yet said not so—" Perhaps he will not sink." A sudden brightness in his look appeared; A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ;— She had been reading in the book of prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair. Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew— The friendly many, and the favourite few: Nor one that day did he to mind recall But she has treasured, and she loves them all: When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people—death has made them dear. He named his friend, but then his hand she pressed, And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest."— "I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound! Then gazed affrightened; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past!

She placed a decent stone his grave above Neatly engraved—an offering of her love; For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, Awake alike to duty and the dead; She woi Id have grieved had friends presumed to spare The least assistance—'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;

But, if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict, will disturb thy brain.
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward:
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give;
Regard the dead, but to the living live.



I Loved to walk where none had walked before,

About the rocks that ran along the shore;

Or far beyond the sight of man to stray,

And take my pleasure when I lost my way:

For then 'twas mine to trace the hilly heath,

And all the mossy moor that lies beneath.

Here had I favourite stations, where I stood

And heard the murmurs of the ocean flood,

With not a sound beside, except when flew

Aloft the lapwing or the gray curlew,

Who with wild notes my fancied power defied,

And mocked the dreams of solitary pride.

I loved to stop at every creek and bay,

Made by the river in its winding way;

And call to memory—not by marks they bare,

But by the thoughts that were created there.

Pleasant it was to see the sea-gulls strive

Against the storm, or in the ocean dive

With eager scream; or when they, drooping, gave

Their closing wings to sail upon the wave:

Then, as the winds and waters raged around,

And breaking billows mixed their deafening sound,

They on the rolling deep securely hung,
And calmly rode the restless waves among.
Nor pleased it less around me to behold
Far up the beach the yesty sea-foam rolled;
Or, from the shore upborne, to see on high
Its frothy flakes in wild confusion fly;
While the salt spray, that clashing billows form,
Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm.



Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil:
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares:
So that, between their titles and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

Ii.—Counsel In Misfortune.

Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves feel not; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial medicine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air, and agony with words:
No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow,
But no man's virtue nor sufficiency
To be so moral when he shall endure
The like himself.


Oh, it is excellent

To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous

To use it like a giant.


There's nothing in this world can make me joy:
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.


To climb steep hills,

Requires slow pace at first: Anger is like
A full hot horse, who being allowed his way,
Self-mettle tires him.


What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted?
Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked though locked up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.


How quickly Nature falls into revolt

When gold becomes her object!

For this the foolish over-careful fathers

Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains

with care,
Their bones with industry;
For this they have engrossed and piled up
The cankered heaps of strange-achieved gold.


In common worldly things, 'tis called ungrateful,
With dull unwillingness to repay a debt
Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;
Much more to be thus opposite with Heaven,
For it requires the royal debt it lent you.


'Tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perked up in glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.

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But look! the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.


The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is—spotless reputation: that away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.


The King is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to

wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord

the King!"— "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks

of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are coming. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring cul-

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Gueldres and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the Golden Lilies—upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in

rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-whito


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